The God of the Hive - Laurie R. King [117]
Goodman’s arm came out of the dark and appropriated the spade, which Holmes had been leaning on during this speech. Holmes moved to one side, and the hole continued to fill.
“Mycroft could have done all of that,” I pointed out.
“Granted. Although my brother might hesitate to send a sniper after his sister-in-law.”
I ignored the levity, although Goodman made a quiet Ha! “Anything Mycroft was in a position to effect, I imagine his secretary could have duplicated with forged orders. Certainly until Wednesday, when Mycroft was found. Or, not found,” I added.
“Either side could have done this. But it was definitely intended to be taken as Mycroft.”
“But Holmes, if Mycroft was alive, surely he’d have got us a message?”
“Perhaps he’s in Kent with your Mr Javitz and—”
He caught my sharp gesture even in the near-dark, but too late. The sound of digging stopped.
“You moved them?” came the voice from the grave.
With a wrench, my brain shifted direction: Our preoccupation with governmental misdeeds and assassinations meant nothing to Robert Goodman compared with the welfare of a child. “I did. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I talked to Captain Javitz after you left this morning and he had … concerns, so it seemed best to send the two of them away. They’ll be safe.”
“What concerns?”
How to answer him? By saying that his family’s servants had betrayed him to the American? That the pilot now suspected our eccentric rescuer was not only truly insane, but friends with a homosexual murderer as well? That I had to depend on Javitz to watch Estelle, and had no choice but to do as he asked?
“It’s complicated.”
“He knows,” Goodman said flatly.
I felt Holmes’ gaze bore into me, but I dropped onto my heels, stretching a hand out to the small man’s shoulder. “Robert, I owe you so much. May I ask one more favour of you? That we not have this discussion just now?”
For the longest time, the glitter of his eyes in the faint light did not shift. Then he said, “Does she know?”
“No.”
“Do not tell her.”
“I won’t.”
And without another word, he returned to his shovelling.
I could feel the question yearning from the man at my side: Know what? Another would have asked. Holmes said merely, “That my brother is not in his coffin suggests that this entire episode could have been in service of his needs. That he wished to appear dead.”
“For the third time, why not leave a message?”
“I could think of a hundred reasons,” he snapped. “He is held captive. His post to The Times was intercepted. He decided that a message was either inadvisable or unnecessary.”
“Unnecessary? How were we to guess the newspaper report was false?” I used the word guess deliberately, knowing it would raise his ire.
“I knew there was something wrong the moment I read his obituary.”
“Well, yes!”
“Wrong with the report, that is. The general public does not know Mycroft Holmes from Adam, so why should The Times print a formal obituary? And in any event, even if a man has been old and ill, how often does his obituary appear the very next day?”
I started to protest, then stopped: Javitz had noted just that thing, and I had dismissed it. Still: “And you think Mycroft would have expected us to make a whopping great leap of ratiocination based on a too-quick obituary?”
“I think when we find him, he will be amused that we had to dig up his coffin to be certain.”
“‘Amused,’” I repeated darkly, looking at my filthy clothing and blistered hands. “Will he also be amused when his misplaced confidence in our deductive abilities gets us arrested for grave-robbing?”
“We have not actually stolen anything,” Holmes pointed out mildly.